


Every Poison But You

by nihil0



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Absinthe, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Character Study, Drug Use, Drugs, Frustration, Hallucinations, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, POV Oswald Cobblepot, Past Violence, Pining, Post-Season/Series 03, Recreational Drug Use, References to Drugs, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2018-12-12 02:31:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11727651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nihil0/pseuds/nihil0
Summary: Oswald, in his own way, is an expert in poisons. One might even say that he is a connoisseur.(Reference to drug use in chapters 2 and 3.)





	1. Alcohol

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Gotham or the characters, obviously.  
> Thanks, again, to the great LuxeApocalypse for betareading, editing and help.  
> BTW, don't try this at home.

There was nothing new in Oswald’s “fondness” for alcohol. It went back a long way, to his teenage days, when he'd started sneaking drinks out of his mother’s secret supply as one of his little acts of rebellion.

Alcohol became a companion, both when he had something to celebrate and something to mourn.  Alcohol had dulled the pain in his maimed leg, invigorated him when he was tired and worried; it had been there when he had lost his mother, when he had unexpectedly found his father and when he was taken from him. Alcohol presided over deals with new allies, the sigil that sealed them; it loosened tongues.  Alcohol was a friend, readily available, comforting and useful.

Of course, like all friends, it also posed some dangers… it could always betray.

After the opening of the Iceberg Lounge, Oswald drank mostly to celebrate; he would sit with his spirit of choice, contemplating his _outrageous centerpiece_ as proof of his success, his scheming prowess. He raised his glass to Edward, who had so  predictably underestimated his ability to play all the cards life had dealt him.

But what had started as a celebration soon turned into a sullen meditation on solitude. Even surrounded by the fruits of his success, deep down Oswald felt a sense of failure. What did it all matter, really? The one man he had ever loved had not only hated him but had also tried to kill him. Twice.

And yet, he remembered Edward’s trembling hand the last time they had spoken; how his grip on the gun looked precarious and weak. He remembered the uncertainty on Edward's face; how conflicted, how _distraught_ he had looked. Surely that meant _something._  How could it not? 

He remembered the raindrops on Edward’s glasses; how they'd obscured his eyes. The eyes would have revealed more, no doubt, if only he'd been able to see them properly.   The confrontations, both of them, remained at the forefront of his thoughts _._   But all the details seemed to get mixed up, and Oswald didn’t know whether it was the alcohol, or just the quirks of his own mind taking turns to console and torment him.  

Was Edward crying, that first time on the docks?

He'd certainly looked like he was. And yet, he'd pulled the trigger. Not once. _Twice._ _Bang bang, my baby shot me down._   Edward had been hateful and cruel, like some distorted, nightmarish version of himself.  The bullet wound hadn’t been the most painful part.  Oswald hadn't had time to reflect upon the emptiness encroaching upon him – the realization that he had _truly_ fucked up this time – before he was enclosed by a swirl of dark water and blood.

Oswald should have acted differently. He should have tried harder. He had talked his way out of much worse. It was what he did best, his forte. But when it mattered, he'd failed.  If only he'd been more convincing… if only he'd been _better._

Edward would have chosen him over her. He didn't doubt it.

And yet, the way Edward had looked at him before it all went wrong was so loving, so full of words left unsaid, so heated. Edward had wanted him, just like he wanted Edward. Or had he misunderstood everything? Had he been looking for something that was never there to begin with?

There had been no hope. Not even the second time, when the gun had trembled in Edward's grasp.  When Edward had tried to get a second tearful declaration to feed his ego. There really was no hope. And Oswald hated Edward, but he hated himself more because he couldn’t seem to just let his hope die.

Oswald drank, and he was again at the docks. He could feel the cold of the rain and wind. The icy water of the river. The smooth unyielding ice of Edward’s prison. The images ran together in his mind, over and over.  It was his personal hell. Hope and despair chasing each other, again and again until he passed out.

More and more, after everyone else had left, Oswald would end up drinking alone, in front of Edward’s icy prison. One drink too many, and he could only see a painful memento of his failure.

 

 


	2. Absinthe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, do not try this at home. This is just fiction (and fan-fiction, at that). And most likely I also took some liberties with how these things work...  
> Thanks, again, to LuxeApocalypse for the priceless and extensive help, support and suggestions.

Having Ivy around meant easy access to any kind of hallucinogenic substance Mother Earth could provide.

Oswald had been looking into the history of absinthe, interested in a bohemian addition to the already extensive list of drinks offered at the Iceberg Lounge. Of course, there was absolutely no reason to choose a modern, safe knock-off of the 19th century Green Fairy. Oswald wanted the real deal.  Nothing else would do.

Ivy had thrown herself into the 'project' with enthusiasm.  Perhaps a little _too_ much enthusiasm, Oswald thought wryly. She happened to have just the right ingredients for something mind-blowing. She'd shut herself away in her lab with her special wormwoodsupply, gleeful as a child in front of a pile of Christmas presents.

When Ivy re-emerged from the lab days later, looking exhilarated, she'd presented Oswald with the fruits of her research: an alarmingly bright green liquid in a curious little bottle. Ivy claimed that her twist to the traditional recipe – a little pinch of _N,N-Dimethyltryptamine_ harvested from several plant species - would bolster the hallucinogenic properties. When Oswald asked her to elaborate, Ivy answered simply: “You will see … _things_ , Pengy. But I don’t know what, because, obviously, it's different for everyone.”

Oswald, of course, was curious. But he knew that he had to be careful. He couldn’t let untrustworthy people witness his little experiment. He couldn’t afford to let his guard down like that. He'd have to wait until after closing time.

Fast forward to 3am, and Oswald watched the last stragglers disperse from his perch on the balcony, turning the bottle over and over in his hand. The bottle seemed so small, so _harmless_ – of course Ivy had a rather misty idea of how much alcohol was _enough_ alcohol for a grownup – so Oswald decided to pour every last drop into the empty glass on the table beside him. For the rest, he carefully followed Ivy’s instructions.

It was definitely pleasant, not much different from the anise flavor he expected, except for a bitter aftertaste. It was strong, but Oswald was used to that.

It was good, as drinks go; still, he was ready to judge the experiment a failure when he noticed something.

There was something ... _off_ about the ice column at the center of the Lounge.

It certainly _looked_ different, but at first Oswald couldn’t tell what, exactly. Then he noticed the odd, dulled quality of the ice, a muted green-gold glow like underwater light. As if the ice was no longer crystalline pure but dirty, like the water of a neglected pond. He scoffed; all that reading about the “green fairy” must have left an impression. He was ready to haul himself off to his bedroom suite when he noticed that the green tinge was not the only thing that seemed strange.

He'd noticed a particular sheen, as if the ice had started to melt. Slowly, nervously, he descended the steps down to the centre of the club, approaching the column for a closer look.

It couldn’t be, _surely._ Fries had explained – with more than a little amount of pride – that only extremely high temperatures, or a special kind of device of his own invention, could melt that kind of ice.

Still, the ice looked unmistakably wet. Oswald stared at it, transfixed. The surface was shining with moisture; tiny droplets fell down at intervals.  Oswald pressed his palm to the ice.  It felt wet, but when he pulled his hand away, it was dry.

Regardless, the ice definitely appeared to be melting. He could already see a little puddle forming at the base. Soon there would be water everywhere, and Edward would finally be free. Then it occurred to Oswald that Edward might not actually _survive_ this kind of defrosting.  Alarmed, Oswald spun around, intending to go back upstairs and phone Fries so he could come over to the Lounge immediately and put everything back the way it was.    

He glanced around the club.  The eerie green glow, no longer confined to just the ice, now suffused every available space. The entire club looked waterlogged, moldy, _rotting_ from the inside.  Panicked, he turned back to the ice as a brute wave of dizziness almost floored him.  Trying to focus, to regain his composure, he looked up again, straight at Edward, still mercifully frozen in position but … _different._   

He could now see bare skin through the ice.

That was simply _not possible._ The ice melting for obscure reasons was one thing, but Edward had been frozen in that glaring green abomination of a suit; certainly _not_ in any state of undress.  He was hallucinating, for sure.  That wasn’t surprising in itself. He'd asked Ivy to come up with an absinthe that actually _worked_ , and _work it did_.

Edward looked vulnerable yet strong, perfect and still like a statue behind glass. Oswald needed to touch him, to feel warm skin instead of lifeless ice; he wanted to run his hands over Ed’s body, hold him down and suck him dry. He'd wanted this for so very long, and all his righteous rage couldn’t really drive that want away.

Oswald stared, conflicted between curiosity – he had never seen Edward like that, and never would – and the painful knowledge that it was not real.


	3. Cocaine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not try this at home. This is just fiction (and fan-fiction, at that).  
> This chapter is not beta-ed. All mistakes are mine.

Oswald Cobblepot on coke could be accurately described as an amplified version of himself. His mood swings were wilder; his rage was 10 times more vicious; and on the whole he was much more unpredictable. In short, he could be anyone’s worst nightmare.

Rumor had it that the Penguin had fully embraced the decadent lifestyle that came with running a successful club like the Iceberg Lounge and a lot of much more unsavory underground stuff. So, of course, there were people who swore that a _friend of a friend_ knew _someone_ who had seen him doing lines off the naked chest of one of the hot waiters. But as completely debauched and decadent as it sounded, it just wasn’t true.

Oswald was in general rather private in his consumption of recreational drugs and very peculiar in his ‘trysts’. That is why the members of the staff and those who knew him were extremely surprised when one late night the Penguin ended up making a scene with Julian, a tall and slender waiter with dark eyes and killer cheekbones, known by all as his favorite.

Oswald’s routine had been interrupted by an unplanned ‘meeting’ with a very persistent lowlife wannabe mobster, who had the dubious honor of providing a new tally mark on Victor Zsasz’s skin. This kind of disruption of his schedule had of course made the Penguin very cross and alcohol was simply not enough to improve his mood. Therefore, he needed something stronger…

By the time Oswald had resumed his place at the Lounge, he was feeling restless and uncharacteristically horny. For some reason, he could just keep staring at Ed in his icy prison and at Julian, in turns.

Everybody with eyes and a normal amount of brains could see that Julian had been hired because he bore a striking resemblance to Edward Nygma; the fact that he was also very good at his job was merely a lucky coincidence. It was common knowledge, still Oswald resented anyone who actually dared to point out the obvious. Julian, for his part, knew that the boss had been in love with the man now trapped in ice at the center of the Lounge – seeing it had been quite unsettling to say the least – but Oswald had never behaved inappropriately. Until that night.

All sorts of filthy thoughts were swirling in Oswald’s head, he felt tortured by a desire that had never really found satisfaction; he craved to touch and kiss and taste and he had waited and waited but he couldn’t wait any longer.

Oswald knew that Julian was not Edward, of course, but it was as if they had merged into one entity in his coke-fueled fantasy and he just couldn’t help himself.

Eyes ablaze, he approached Julian, and when the waiter came closer to hand him his drink, Oswald grabbed his arm forcefully. Startled, Julian dropped the glass, which shattered on the floor. Oswald raised his hand and the waiter was sure he was going to slap him or something. Instead, Oswald’s hand went to Julian throat, although not in a menacing way. Oswald stroked his neck and then his hand closed around it. He was muttering something but Julian couldn’t really make sense of it. Then Oswald started fumbling Julian’s bowtie and buttons. Julian didn’t really know what to do; he knew that his boss had a very explosive temper, but he couldn’t actually let him undress him in the middle of the club.

It was very late, and most of the people were leaving anyway, but still it was clear that the Penguin was attracting a great deal of unwanted attention. So, Victor Zsasz strode towards Oswald, and whispered in his ear, calm and collected:

“Boss, people are staring…”

“And let them stare! I don’t give a damn!”

It wasn’t usual for Oswald to actually raise his voice in the club, but everybody knew that when the Penguin got angry, it was better to just _disappear_ before things got really ugly.

Oswald walked towards the ice column, pale and wide-eyed, shouting about how everything was pointless, about how he had endured an endless stream of disappointment and pain for nothing.

He stared at the ice with a frenzied expression, breathing heavily. Then he started slamming his fists against the ice, yelling that he would get Edward back, that he would _have_ him, finally, even if he had to tear the damned ice block down with his bare hands.

Oswald raged at the column for what seemed like an eternity, until his knuckles were bloodied and bruised. When he had calmed down, Oswald realized that even in his icy prison, Edward could still spill his blood.


End file.
